Escape, Escaping, Escaped
by a tattered rose
Summary: Ivy has a choice to make: to take the pills, or not. To follow Marilyn, or not. But someone takes the decision out of her hands. And maybe that's all she and Marilyn ever needed.


It wasn't about Derek, in the end. He was part of it – a huge part. But she could survive Derek.

It was the pity in Eileen's voice, the stricken look in Julia's eye. She couldn't bear to look at Tom. She'd already seen that expression once, and would never forget it. Eileen had once said she was "her hope." Julia had never wanted her, not from the start. She was their pragmatic choice and all it took was Derek crossing the stage, Karen in tow, and they didn't even offer a word of protest for their own decision. All they had was pity. Poor little Ivy, poor little not-quite-good-enough. Poor little just-good-enough-to-come-up-short.

Derek was just a director who was rejecting her. It wasn't like that had never happened before. Pity would pass in time. She could wait it out. She didn't think she could get past how no one in that room believed in her at all. Karen all but quit the production and went MIA, and Derek believed in her so much he defied everyone else, lost rehearsal time to disappear and track her down. She didn't even rate a half-hearted "but Derek-" Not even from Tom.

She survived the show, her last run on "Hell on Earth" haunting her every step and every note. The theatre was her life, she'd given it all she had and a little bit more. The show was always more important, how could she ever have forgotten?

Every beat of applause was for the show. Mostly for the star. But a sliver, one out of every thousand claps, was for her. Take pride in the show, theatre is a team sport. Remember you are a part of that team, and you are also you.

Sometimes more garbled, sometimes mimed, that had been the nightly pep talk of her first stage manager, and had become a mantra, of sorts.

There are no small parts, only small actors.

An oldie, but goodie.

Everyone else would be crowding the wings, watching the triumphant final scenes. There would be curtain calls, she wouldn't be missed in the chaos, and then a party backstage full of congratulations and victorious shouts.

The dressing room would be hers for an hour, at least.

Stupid really, how one could feel at home in front of a mirror, a few pictures and a line of makeup. Borrowed space, carved from a shared space, but the theatre had its own funny definition of "belonging." One that was transient by nature. You were good enough to stay, night by night, or you weren't.

Karen had been good. More than good. Eileen, Julia, Tom were all out there holding their breath for the last seconds of the final song, when they could laugh and clap and cheer. Lyle was here, Dennis had seen him in the hall, and her own makeshift version of the USO number would by now have faded from his mind, if he remembered her at all. And Derek. Justified. He'd been right, all along. And now his vision was on the stage, right where he wanted it.

She didn't want to think about what she had been.

She opened her bag for, well for something to occupy her mind for a minute. Lip gloss, maybe her cell phone though god knew who she'd call. Past her sunglasses case her hand closed on a familiar cylinder, left behind when she cleaned out. Left unintentionally, or maybe not. Who could remember?

The pills filled her palm, something poetic in the light, slightly chalky pile. This is how Marilyn had gone out, how she tried to make it all stop. Or start again. Fall far enough, and the pain doesn't follow. When it comes back, fall just a little bit further.

Even second choice was something. From Karen's perspective of first choice, it was nothing. But it was something, even if it wasn't enough, and could never be more than what it was. Not good enough.

The applause was soaring, she'd missed the final notes. She wasn't even there, not even a sliver of the appreciation was for her. It was just a lie you told yourself, and told each other. It was the show that mattered, and your worth was defined by being replaceable. If not you, then someone else, and no one would ever know you weren't there. Unless you're the star, a face and a name to be remembered.

She closed her fist around the comfortingly uneven proof of shame.

The difference was that Marilyn had been a star, and even at the end, even 50 years later, everyone cared.

She was just a nameless, faceless voice, a body moving in step with a dozen others as pretty backdrop.

For the star.

She'd been staring at her hand, sharpened knuckles pressing down into her thigh. Lifting her head, she made herself meet her own eyes, hemmed in by the tortured, joyful, contradictory woman she'd grown to love. The applause rose and fell, rose and fell, to a last lingering trickle.

With the books and the movies, she'd thought she understood Marilyn. She'd believe that was enough, that and breaking down the lines and learning to talk the right way, and knowing how to tease out the meaning of each lyric. Marilyn would live out through her eye and voice, the sway of her hips.

The seats would be emptying as their former occupants filed out the doors, talking and laughing. A few would be crying into a tissue, embarrassed.. A few more would be singing or humming favourite songs, words slurred over and a little off key.

She'd thought, she'd really and truly believed that a part of Marilyn was inside of her. Really, she was just one of thousands, who saw something in Marilyn that looked a lot like something they saw inside themselves. Marilyn had IT, even when she was second hand.

The only person in the mirror was Ivy Lynn. Lost eyes glazed over with carefully unshed tears.

She didn't want to pity herself.

She wondered if Marilyn had. Pitied herself. Or if everything she thought she knew about the star of stars was just a projection, seeing what she wanted to see in a woman who wasn't even in focus, not if you read more than one author's interpretation. With so many stories, so many truths, you could see anything.

Like the empathy, and the care and the longing and the apologies she thought she'd seen in Derek over the past weeks. She'd wanted to see it, even when – especially when – she hadn't expected it at all.

The rhythms of the theatre leeched into your blood, over time. She was Type B(theatre), if anyone ever needed to know. She didn't need a clock to tell her the spectators were gone; cast, crew and friends mingling across the stage.

Dev wouldn't be there, and she felt a measure of guilt over that. But Karen had more, now. She had her dream. Her life had never been the theatre, it was just something she did, playing at joining Broadway. Now it had tapped her, setting claim the way it had claimed Ivy the first time she saw the curtain fall and realized that the world that had breathed on the stage, igniting the small sheltered area now closed off by curtain – they had created that world, lived it, shared it, _were_ it.

The only difference was that the theatre loved Karen Cartwright and was merely fond of Ivy Lynn, old and sturdy friend that she was.

Music blasted, a startle of cacophony dulled almost as quick, but not before her hand convulsed, reminding her of what she still had.

She wasn't after suicide. Not really. She didn't think Marilyn was either. Just a little control. One thing that no one else had any power over at all, even if it meant losing power yourself. A fraction of her life no one could steal or dirty.

Little pebbles of defiance, and it was enough to hold them. It would be enough until it wasn't. Then one pill. It would be enough until it wasn't. Then two pills...

She'd been down this road, she knew how it went. She'd teetered on the line where control became surrender and it had all gone wrBANG.

The dressing room door hit the wall with a spine-jolting crash, and her widened eyes reflected back with painful clarity as two hoarded tears escaped down her cheeks.

"Ivy."

Derek's voice was loud and commanding, but surprisingly neutral.

She wondered what they needed her for, what was so important right this second that Derek would abandon his moment of glory. Cast pictures, most likely. There were always reporters in the crowd for the first official show. She scraped her free palm across her face. Of course, they'd want the Shadow Marilyns to flank Karen's artful poses.

"Sorry. I'll be there in a-"

Both words and her best attempt at a practiced cheerful smile faltered under Derek's solemn scrutiny. _Yet another moment,_ she thought, as he took slow deliberate steps towards her, _when it would be nice to have a hint_, because her best read of his expression was fear and her better guess was somewhere between condescension and yet more pity.

"For fuck's sake, what is it now?" Her outburst surprised them both, but there was only so much she could take in a day. If there were more truths in there, somewhere, and he had finally found the need to– If he wanted to make sure they were really and truly over before he- Well, if he'd come to say goodbye, that was something. Better than pity. A niceness, in a way, backhanded and painfully timed as it was.

Derek's lips had parted, a helpless glance thrown carelessly over the surroundings before focusing on the square foot of carpet between his feet and hers. She hadn't noticed he'd moved.

It was the same stupid game they always played. She went first, he did what he liked. If she liked what he did, they moved on. If she didn't, he tried again. Or rather, he'd always tried again. If he didn't like her opening move this time, she didn't owe him a do over softball. The worst he could do was to fire her, again, but she wouldn't even feel it. The worst he could try to do was tell her something she already knew.

Every half minute he'd steal a glance at her, his face relaxed, unreadable but for slightly tightened brows.

She waited him out. The pills massaged her skin.

He'd rejected her personally when he stood her up to screw Rebecca, and let her in on the joke when he finally informed her she should be completely fine with it. Then defined 'them' as professionals.

That was almost alright. Work was so much a part of who each of them were, and they'd spent so much energy on Bombshell, alone and together. As if they had a child, they'd stay together until she went off to college, and then Ivy would break down and cry because she'd secretly wanted more than respect and a – well, a "work husband" was as good a term as any.

Apparently she wasn't good enough for that either. Good enough, of course, to play sounding board and assistant director for intense hours, sprawled over his pillows in new lingerie. Unquestionably good enough to satisfy him with her perfectly Marilyn blend of available sex and unexpected intelligence, eternal support and well-placed humour. And she knew she'd been more than good at what they did when he gave up on work for the night.

Good enough to play stand in for her own life. Or rather as stand-in for someone else entirely, who would do everything a little better because she had IT, and Ivy didn't. Because she was good enough for everything but the part she was helping him to create, and had earned respect only far enough to him to never mention that he would never give her the part. No matter what he'd hinted at before, she'd never be a star, in the threatre or in his life.

That was what hurt the most. They weren't personal, they weren't professional. There wasn't much left they could be, except an uncomfortable dynamic in the rehearsal space. A million sharp memories attacking her like a swarm of gnats.

She could get another ensemble job, enough time had passed. Maybe she'd go to England, embed herself in the new set of scandals and rumours brewing in the West End.

Theatre might have broken her heart, but she'd always crawl back. Just crawl somewhere else, this time. She couldn't stand to stay here, and watch-

Tiny drifts of powder thickened the film of sweat on her palm as she ground the pills together.

He looked up again, but this time it wasn't a quick glance. He would be hiding under his eyebrows, except that she was sitting, so he was forced to meet her gaze full on.

Forcing her to meet his.

He knelt down before her, painfully slowly, painfully like the first time they-

For a brief hysterical moment, she feared he was going to do something, like propose. More proof that her life was nothing but a poor man's mimicry of Karen's twice-blessed existence.

His fingers ghosted over her closed fist, head bent over her knee. She didn't want to, but her hand left the safety of her dress, levitating a scant millimeter above his, escaping contact without escaping, seeking it without allowing it.

Cupped palms cradled her fist, thumbs finally trailing gossamer along her fingers.

It was all she had left of her life, and he wanted to take even her last secret from her.

He stroked her again, and once more, warm breath through open mouth making her burn.

She let her fingers fall open. And then she waited. Waited for the protest, the condemnation, weary sigh and then the pity. Always pity when you were out on your own. He didn't think enough of her for disgust.

The silence, the patience, the waiting sent her heart beating, shook her breath along the high trill.

By fractions of an inch he pressed her open hand between both of his, like it was a bird that might fliy away, then drew them back until she was left staring at her empty palm, creases lined in white.

She felt the loss, felt naked and lost.

Tiny squeaks broke into the dead air, a trickle of powder funneled from his fist, and the absurd opening from a soap opera rose into her mind: "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives."

It went on forever, a macabre fascination, until her control was a pathetic pile of dust on the floor and the remaining fragments were scraped carelessly onto his leg.

The air on her bare legs was colder when he stood, scattering the dust under his shoe, grinding it down with a twist of his heel. He hesitated for one heartbeat, two, as he turned away, before his eyes fell closed instead of opening, his parted lips easing shut. Maybe he wanted to look at her, to say something. Maybe she wanted him to. Maybe he thought she wanted to say something. Maybe she did.

Maybe she would have. Or should have.

Then the moment was gone, and so was he.

She felt relieved. She didn't want to know why.

It was just Derek. Ignoring her one minute, hideous and cruel the next. Relaxed, almost sweetly attentive when they were alone. Sometimes he was someone else entirely, a flicker of mystery she couldn't let go of because it never quite let go of her. Never quite exactly what she didn't want or need. Something she would bet Derek wouldn't understand either.

Well... That's what she liked to think; that she knew something about Derek. Understood him, even in part. Just like she once thought she understood Marilyn.

She scuffed at the paler patch of carpet and turned back around to her dressing table, littered with the same assortment of tools and products and the telltale frosted orange bottle lying, obviously empty, on its side.

The bottle was swept into her bag along with the other small items she couldn't easily and cheaply replace. She ripped her personal photos from the mirror, leaving each and every Marilyn behind. It was her show, her space.

Tom would understand. Julia, Eileen – they'd given her their permission along with their pity.

She could survive Bombshell. Hell, she could survive Marilyn.

It wasn't like she was needed. They'd shuffle a few numbers around, just a hair, and no one would even notice she was gone. There were dancers and singers in Boston who could learn her part in an afternoon. They'd spend more time coming up with a better way to get Karen's gloves off smoothly than they would spend erasing her from the show.

The show would be just fine.

Back in her street clothes, train ticket already booked, she took a last, lingering look around her makeshift home, her nearly-empty station opposite one more completely naked, though it had been full as the others yesterday.

The theatre was eternal, and never stood still. Forever happened every moment and then it was gone.

Deep in her bag, her fingers caressed the empty tube.

Marilyn must have been looking for something during all those years of drugs and booze. Some people thought she was trying to escape, but that doesn't seem like her. All she ever wanted was to be more, to be better, to not be taken seriously and to find love. She had to be looking for something. Probably no one ever knew precisely what she was looking for. Maybe she hadn't known either.

Ivy had wanted to be released. From the train wreck her life had become, from Bombshell, from the futile, hopeless struggle of desperately craving a part she was never going to have. Release from Derek and the endless dizzying dance to choreography she didn't know.

Marilyn had finally hovered too far over the edge, reached out to an empty line.

Ivy had run away and hid, maybe she wanted to be found. She did. Everyone does, a little bit. Most stay lost, unless they leave a trail of breadcrumbs. Ivy was sure she hadn't. But she'd been found anyway. And then she had left one huge breadcrumb, right by her side.

Now she had her release, and it hurt like hell but she at least she could breath. She could let it go. Move on. Start over.

The windy streets felt endless and exciting, and she took the first exhilaratingly deep breath she'd had in months. The air kissed at the back of her throat, here in Boston. Maybe she _would_ go to England. See how the air tasted there.

Marilyn couldn't let go of Marilyn. By the time she tried it was already too late.

Ivy could let go of Marilyn. There was still room even for Ivy Conroy to sit next to Ivy Lynn and figure things out.

Like what it meant, not _for_ them exactly, but what had she and Derek ever really meant to each other? More importantly, what had each other meant to themselves? They were nothing but smoke and mirrors, not this and not that, a smudge of powder on a dressing room floor. They were nothing to the world but it felt like they'd still been something to each other, for a time. And then a moment, earned by months of vaulted highs and suffocating lows, sleepless hours and breathless kisses, unvarnished truths and buried deception. She was hiding, he was looking, and she didn't think– it was like they weren't being anything but perfectly themselves, fully honest at last, holding still and silent to preserve one fragile, perfect scene.

The one time it didn't matter if she was good or just good enough. It was moment only they could have, and only they would ever have. Maybe it was the memory of every little speck of love, collected all together before disintegrating away.

One perfect moment. That was something. Because if that's not the stuff legends are born of, what is?


End file.
